My shape beyond touch is naming
shadows over polar
oceans and numbering
off your toes as you glide into a hazel
wood
suspending on filaments oh
deux et machina but the spliced wood
is green
and the hank of flesh stashed
on thorn hidden by the curve of
guided walks
and the soft swell
that trespasses against fingers
in the outlet nothing
more than
a drowned snake still warm to
the touch that bestows and so you
glide
as the wood opens as a trick
that says here we are and
we being
enough and the haze
is the updraft in the magicof gunpowder
and broken
tissue paper and I lie
again crushed against blanked
off wall where the
door was suspected
and if enough will be sent all out to
depth.